Slipping Away
by Hisa-Ai
Summary: Because Fate was kind to them—even when she was cruel.


**So I would like to preface this fic by saying I know very little about Alzheimer's disease or dementia in general. It, AD, runs on both sides of my family, but I've never personally _known_ those who suffered from it. I've heard about it from other family members, but I never met those affected by it. I did some research, however, and, based on that research, I wrote this story to the best of my ability. I hope, if I got anything wrong, I don't offend anyone who knows someone who has suffered or _is_ suffering from this disease. Really, that was not my intention at all, I promise. I'm not an expert and I'm not claiming to be one, so, please keep that in mind.**

**Bit of an AU, in that Arthur didn't die at the end of the series, he never married Gwen, the ban on magic was lifted, and Arthur and Merlin grow old together ruling their kingdom. Ish. And, obviously, it's a future-fic. **

**Sidenote: I had Carrie Underwood's "Forever Changed" on repeat while I wrote this so I suggest giving it a listen.**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Merlin_ in any way, shape or form, and I don't _think_ I'll own whatever tears you may shed as a result of this fic, but, I'm not a law expert or anything, so I could be wrong.

* * *

_Slipping Away (Always)_

* * *

*.*.*.*.*

This sort of thing ran in families, taking bits and pieces slowly but surely, and tearing worlds and lives apart, leaving nothing but a hollow feeling, a trail of destruction and pain in its wake, nothing to be done but sit back and watch as it takes what it should never have and spill tears that should never fall.

*.*.*.*.*

It started simply enough: Arthur forgetting where he had left this treaty or his sword, or that there was a banquet to be held this night or a knighting ceremony in the morning or a patrol to be led that afternoon—and that was _fine_. People forget things_ all the time._ Arthur had always been sharp, knew where everything was and everything he had to do, but, it was expected, as the stress and years built upon him, wearing him down with too many scars and not enough books to keep him sharp, that he would forget a few things in his daily life. It was _fine_, really, even when he lost his crown for a day and half.

And Merlin wanted desperately to believe that—that everything was _fine_ and it was just stress and age—so he did. For what felt like much too long, he smiled and shook his head when Arthur misplaced various objects that he never would have lost in his earlier years as king.

And when he was writing out a treaty and forgot what the quill was called, Merlin laughed along with him when he attributed it to a momentary lapse—he had had very little sleep the night before and had been sluggish and a bit out of it all day, after all, so it was no big deal.

The simplest of things, really—symptoms, _signs_, Merlin would tell himself with clarity later on—were brushed off to age and stress and lack of sleep for much too long. _Much too long._ It became a part of their lives much too easily, really: Arthur was now the forgetful one—did he have his crown on today or had he left it out in the stables or in Merlin's old room again?—and Merlin was the one making lithe little jokes with love and helping him find his misplaced items and giving him hell for it that was really just affection cloaked in the way they liked it.

It was just how things were now, slowly evolving with the malice of what was spreading, irreversible, inside Arthur's brain without their knowledge.

*.*.*.*.*

Against Merlin's better judgment, he allowed Arthur to go off on his own with a group of newly knighted knights one afternoon for their first ever patrol—usually, Merlin went with, he _always_ went with, but on this day he had been dealing with a magical sort of issue that had cropped up in the lower town and needed seeing to as soon as he could manage, so he had let Arthur go off on his own, sure that the knights would be able to handle it if anything happened or if Arthur needed help—because Merlin wouldn't tell him yet, but Arthur _had_ become rather sloppy with his sword as of late, his technique barely rivaling that of the newest batch of knights.

When they returned, however, five hours later than expected and two hours after the sun went down, Arthur had stalked into his and Merlin's room, closing the door carefully and leaning against it, his face red with something like shame and embarrassment, the lit candles around the room licking at his wounded pride as Merlin approached him slowly, worry written upon him as he took Arthur into his arms and asked what was wrong, had something happened on the patrol?

"I forgot the way home, Merlin." He admitted in a whisper, a sob catching at the back of his throat as Merlin's blood chilled with the admission.

"What?"

"We were out… in the forest, on the same trail I've taken almost every day of my life, and when we came… to the turn-around point… I forgot which way was _home_. Took us all this time to finally figure it out and get back. Merlin, _what's happening to me?_" He asked, body shaking with the whisper, the admission, the _fear_ Merlin knew he was feeling in that moment.

Merlin had shushed him, then, rubbed his back soothingly and coaxed him out of his armor and into his pajamas. He wanted desperately to tell Arthur it was _fine_, it was normal to forget things like that, that it was just stress—but it wasn't. You didn't forget a trail you rode every day of your life because you were _stressed_—Arthur was _always_ stressed and Merlin didn't think he had ever been lost a day in his life, not due to any fault of his own, anyway.

He wanted to kiss away the fear in Arthur's eyes, the pleading look he had still on his face as they tucked themselves into bed and Arthur still didn't understand what was happening or why. He wanted to make everything better for him, to take away the creeping suspicion and fear they both held in the backs of their minds.

But… _he couldn't_. He couldn't lie to Arthur—not about something like this.

So he kissed him, and he kissed him again and again and again, each one more desperate and pleading and _sorry_ and agonizing than the last, until they fell asleep, Merlin's lips whispering quiet reassurances and words of love against Arthur's lips, his neck, his chest, well into the night, only allowing himself the half-asleep sort of state that allowed such a thing.

Merlin never let Arthur go out on a patrol—or anywhere, really—without him again after that.

*.*.*.*.*

And he had hoped it would be enough, that it was _okay_ that Arthur sometimes forgot the way home, because Merlin was with him and his mind was sharp with too many books and too many years as Gaius' apprentice all those years ago, the knowledge he learned under him still useful enough that he never quite forgot any of it, only ever added, really, to his knowledge.

He hoped it would be all right, that it would all be _okay_, because if this was what Merlin thought it was, what Gaius would have told him it was were he still alive to diagnose him… He didn't know what they were going to do.

*.*.*.*.*

It was less okay when Arthur woke up on the morning of his birthday and asked how his father was doing and if there were any improvements in his condition today—had Gaius or Gwen said anything to him, had he even bothered to stop by or ask about him? And what of Morgana? Had there been any word of her whereabouts or plans?

Merlin had to bite back a wave of tears as he was reminded of all that pain and suffering from so many years ago, shaking his head as he sat Arthur's breakfast down on the table—Merlin had never allowed Arthur to hire a new manservant after he had promoted and, well, _married_ Merlin. He didn't want him to stick to his pattern of falling in love with the idiots, after all. He would never admit that the _real_ reason for such a rule, for something so simple being forbidden to the King of Camelot, had been that Merlin simply liked doting on him—and then walked over to the bed, sat down next to him and smoothed down the sheets shakily before taking Arthur's hand in his gently.

"Arthur, love, you father is dead, remember? For decades now. You're the king now, Gaius is dead, Morgana is dead, Gwen doesn't work here anymore—remember, love?" He asked gently, his eyes misting over when a light came back to Arthur's eyes and he nodded, sorrow and remembrance echoing in his eyes as he took Merlin's hand between both of his instead, brought it to his mouth and kissed it, a lingering sort of feeling that sent chills through Merlin in the worst sort of way.

"Sorry, I must… have been dreaming, that's all." He shrugged, though Merlin could tell from his eyes that he knew that wasn't exactly the truth, and they both knew it.

But they ignored it—_just one more day of blissful ignorance_, Merlin had begged whatever Gods there were as he and Arthur fed each other the food he had brought in, ironically and agonizingly forgetting Arthur's state of confusion from just moments ago—and got on with the festivities for the day, enjoying things the best they could with forced smiles on their faces, their doubts and fears plaguing the fronts of their minds against whatever sort of good cheer there was meant to be there instead.

When they finally collapsed into bed that night, exhausted and only half dressed—Arthur had curled in around Merlin almost instantly, resting his head on Merlin's bare chest, eyelids falling heavily before Merlin could even get comfortable—Merlin knew they couldn't ignore this anymore. They really would have to talk about this in the morning.

But, for now, he absent-mindedly placed a kiss to the top of Arthur's head, ran his fingers through his hair delicately, soothingly as Arthur's breathing leveled out, at peace for some moments until Merlin asked, not sure if he was still awake or not, "Did you have a good day?"

Arthur mumbled a half-response into Merlin's chest, though the sound was positive enough that Merlin was ready to let the subject drop and get some sleep himself—he hadn't even been able to give Arthur his extra-special birthday gift, but there would be time in the morning, he supposed, before the council meeting, to give it to him—when Arthur stirred for half a moment, half of a childish smile gracing his face as he said, voice laced with sleep, "Tomorrow's my birthday, you know. Did you get me anything special?"

Merlin had to bite his tongue to keep from crying, slipping into an uneasy sleep as he held tight to Arthur for the rest of the night, wondering if his hold would be enough to protect Arthur's fragile brain from any more harm that might have it.

*.*.*.*.*

They didn't really talk about it like they should have—not in so many words. Even after they both knew what was happening, neither of them could manage to approach the subject. They simply _couldn't_.

Instead, they silently accepted the moments when Arthur wasn't sure what year it was or what had happened yesterday, when he forgot where he was or what he was doing, where he was meant to be going.

They silently, painfully, accepted what Arthur's fate was, more likely than not, to be. And they took those moments between the confusion and forgetfulness and made them _count_. They laughed and they loved and they recounted stories and scars while they could both still remember them at all and had the luxury of reminiscing together.

*.*.*.*.*

Arthur stopped ruling the kingdom eventually, unofficially passing most of his duties on to Merlin when he found he couldn't comprehend an agreement that had been sent to him from Lot's kingdom, and didn't know if it was right to send so many men out to meet Mithian's troops, to escort them safely through his lands after they returned from a harsh battle that Arthur had decided against fighting with men of his own.

And they accepted this. They accepted Arthur waking up screaming at things Merlin couldn't see, they accepted that sometimes he would lash out at Merlin for no reason, they accepted that Arthur was not the man he used to be anymore—Arthur because he _had_ to, because sometimes he didn't know the difference anymore; Merlin because he _needed_ to, because he couldn't admit that he couldn't handle watching the man he loved more than anything else in the world slowly losing his mind, losing bits of himself, of his history and past in something he could never hope to understand.

*.*.*.*.*

Slowly, Arthur began to withdraw more, attending less council meetings, training fewer knights, leaving the castle less and less until only a select few were graced with his presence any more.

Merlin picked up the slack more and more, taking care of both the magical and non-magical parts of the kingdom and the problems that came up, spending little time with Arthur until, one day, he snapped when Merlin came in hours after dinner, telling him he didn't know who he was anymore and that Merlin didn't even love him anymore, _did he_, and why were they even still married if Merlin wanted that little to do with him?

Merlin knew he didn't mean it—and he didn't even remember the argument the following morning—but, still, he trusted the council with as many of the responsibilities as he could after that, only over-seeing what he absolutely _had to_ anymore.

He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he had thrown himself into taking care of Camelot for more of a selfish reason than anything else—he couldn't sit by and watch Arthur lose more and more of himself each day, but—he _had_ to. He couldn't let Arthur handle this on his own, couldn't leave him in the care of servants who looked upon him with pity and sympathy when he started talking about conquests of his youth as though they had only happened yesterday. He couldn't let the man he loved be taken care of by anyone other than him, someone who would love him with all the tears he had and all the bittersweet smiles he could manage. He had to do what Arthur would do were the situation reversed.

He had to be brave and simply face Arthur's fate.

*.*.*.*.*

Arthur, his condition worsening slowly yet all too rapidly through-out the short years it had plagued him, still remembered Merlin, at least, and requested—sometimes _demanded_—his company wherever he went around the castle, whether that be around the back halls or in the library or Gaius' old chambers. He still remembered that he was married to Merlin, still remembered that he loved Merlin, that Merlin loved him back, and... that was enough some days, against everything else that was going on, that he was forgetting and losing the ability to do, it was enough for Merlin that he remembered _him_ at least, and it made everything else bearable.

And Arthur's kisses were slower now, tasting of confusion and herbs rumored to slow down whatever was happening in his brain, but Merlin treasured every single one of them, because any next moment could be the one when he finally forgot Merlin's name.

*.*.*.*.*

Arthur's new favorite thing to do, Merlin found, was to go to the part of castle with the best view of the market and recount old stories, memories he loved and knew better than any current event, for Merlin. He liked to tell them as _he_ knew them, as they happened to _his_ eyes, forgetting details that Merlin had recounted to him once the ban on magic had been lifted all those years ago.

He told of how he slayed a dragon and fought magical beasts, fought his way through bandits and soldiers and saved many lives and did many great things, saving his kingdom, his people, his friends, his love in the process.

He retold the same stories countless times, each time a perfect recital of the last time he told it, always acting as though it was the first time he'd told it in some time now, but Merlin always listened anyway, smiling and focused on his words, hanging on to them the same way Arthur hung on to his hand as he struggled with forming certain sentences and pronouncing certain words that danced off the tip of his tongue in taunt. He would come to cherish those moments, the ones that told Merlin that Arthur was still Arthur and that he would _always_ be Arthur, no matter what else this disease took from him.

*.*.*.*.*

Merlin had often joked, in their younger days, about having to do _everything_ for Arthur, but, now that he actually _had_ to—now that he _had _to feed him and bathe him and dress him and help him when he needed to urinate or defecate—now that he actually _had_ to… There really was no humor in it.

He had meals brought up from the kitchen—_always _Arthur's favorites—and spent much more of the day at Arthur's side, his duties slipping further away from him and more to others more equipped to handle such things at the time, others who could dedicate the time and energy to the kingdom that he had to dedicate to Arthur now, more than ever.

*.*.*.*.*

Eventually, it got to the point where Arthur could hardly leave his bed most days, and, when he could, he _insisted_ that Merlin take him out for a walk to check in on his kingdom—because against everything else that he was losing, his kingdom, his husband, and his oldest and most cherished of memories were the last bits of him still hanging on.

On those walks—so short most days, as the strength Arthur had spent decades building up with too much training and too many battles had left him in a matter of a few short years, leaving him the shell of the great warrior he had once been—he asked about knights that were no more, about battles that had been finished for decades now, about people long since passed.

Merlin tried not to let it get to him, tried not to feel such sadness inside when he squeezed Arthur's fragile hand and told him that Gwaine was off at the tavern again; they had hired a new barmaid and _oh that Gwaine_, he had every intention of bedding her, he would chuckle, pretending the tears stinging at his eyes were those of laughter and not those of grief for a knight who had died over thirty years ago in a battle he had never meant to come home from after Merlin married Arthur, wanting to protect _him_, at least, from carrying such pain around when he was free from, it in the worst sort of way.

*.*.*.*.*

Arthur didn't tease Merlin anymore, didn't call him an idiot, didn't argue with him much, but he _did_ recall a handful of memories and stories that often included a multitude of insults and put-downs meant as thinly veiled flirtations, soft smiles gracing his face when he recounted those stories for Merlin, the tales crinkling his age worn eyes that were still so blue, but so so tired these days, so distant most of the time, sparkling, in the most heartbreaking sort of way, only when he could manage to call forward the things that had not yet left him.

*.*.*.*.*

It became a tiring sort of life—painful, even—keeping Merlin up late at night with tears he wouldn't allow his husband to see, until the day Arthur began to wake up in the middle of the night, his sleeping pattern turning into disarray and leaving Merlin with exhaustion and little time to process or deal with how he was feeling about everything, until he at last whipped up a sleeping draught for Arthur and gave it to him every night before bed, keeping him asleep through-out the night and chasing away the nightmares he admitted, in a rare moment of lucidity, to having.

It was suggested to him by Leon, one of their few surviving friends, that perhaps Arthur should be cared for, looked after, by those more equipped for such stress. He had handed over care of the kingdom because he couldn't handle it and he had recognized it—why couldn't he recognize that perhaps Arthur needed the care of someone other than Merlin?

Merlin didn't speak to Leon for weeks after that, stubbornly insisting that he could handle it even though he couldn't and he knew he probably couldn't. He was a dragon lord, the greatest sorcerer to ever walk the earth; he had fought many great enemies in his time, had faced the most challenging of foes, stared death in the face numerous times and came out alive—he couldn't really be expected to admit that he couldn't take care of his own damned husband anymore, could he? And, even if he could... He didn't _want to. _He loved Arthur, had promised him he would always be there for him, and just because it was hard now—harder than he ever thought it would be—didn't mean he could go back on that promise, that he would even _want to_.

He was going to care for Arthur, his husband, his love, until the day death forced them to part on the mortal plane.

*.*.*.*.*

Arthur had fewer good days now—not that any of his days had really been _good days_ for a while now, but, still—but they did come around, and, on those days, when he insisted once again that he get out of bed, and go for a short walk, Merlin took him out about the castle as he liked, making sure he had the view of a kingdom that had changed drastically over the years but was still, always, in Arthur's mind, the Camelot of his youth, that he liked so much.

On one such days, when they were sitting in chairs over-looking the marketplace, instead of recounting some old battle that Merlin knew inside and out, Arthur went off about something else, started talking about the love of his life and how he had the most adorable of dopey smiles and ears that stuck out and blue eyes that Arthur could get lost in for years if he had let him.

It was an odd sort of feeling—half bliss that Arthur still remembered any of that when he forgot even his own father's name, and a sinking sort of feeling that this wasn't going to be a story Merlin would like the ending to—listening to Arthur recount, in that one sitting, all those stories, all those thoughts he had once told Merlin when they were young and surrounded by bliss—how his long, gangly legs were annoyingly enchanting, how he hummed when he was feeling a special sort of happiness that made Arthur _beam_, how his kisses had tasted like fire and mystery, how he made love to Arthur tenderly and rough all at once, and made him feel like he finally _belonged_ in the Universe when he just _looked_ at him in this special way of his…

He went on for _hours_ that evening, refusing to leave to get dinner or anything else until he finished filling Merlin's head with all the little details he said he had always loved about his husband.

He finished well after the moon was high in the sky, giving Merlin a sad sort of smile as he turned to him, tears in his eyes, and said, "I haven't seen him in a while now, but, wherever he is, I hope he knows I will never stop loving him."

Merlin broke down then, tears flowing freely from his eyes as he tried to pull himself together, his heart hurting now with—with _everything_—_from_ everything.

Arthur was confused, wondering what was wrong with him—had it been something he said?

Merlin assured him that everything was _fine_ and wiped his face off, offering Arthur the best sort of smile he could manage before telling him that they should probably get inside now, they still hadn't eaten dinner yet and wasn't he, perhaps, getting a bit tired?

"You're probably right." He agreed, standing slowly to go and looping his arm though Merlin's. Before he would walk away with him, however, he gave him a piercing, gauging sort of look, and asked, "Your eyes… are so familiar—do I… know you?" His tone was soft, confused, apologetic, so far from the man he used to be that Merlin couldn't wonder at it without risking tears again.

So he simply shook his head, willing himself not to cry again, as he said, "No. I don't think you do. My name is Merlin."

"Merlin… That sounds familiar… Do you know what my husband's name was?" Arthur asked softly.

"No… you… never mentioned it. I'm sorry." Merlin told him, breaking his own heart in a way he never thought possible.

It was one thing to lose people—friends, family, knights, far too many burials clouding up Merlin's mind and memories for comfort—to lay them to rest and _know_ that their suffering was over and they could finally be at peace, but it was another… another to lose them without _really_ losing them_. _To lose bits and pieces of them, to lose the person they _were_, to be left with a shadow, an echo of the person they once were, and, what was more, to watch them lose it all and be able to do nothing about it.

*.*.*.*.*

There was a sadistic sort of suffering in this fate—for both Merlin _and_ Arthur—and Merlin wondered what kind of God would allow it, would allow a great man such as Arthur to fall as he had, to have him build this great kingdom and then lose it—all because of his own mind. What kind of fate _was_ that? If Kilgharrah or Gaius had still been alive, he would have found them, he would have screamed and begged for answers until his throat was raw and he was seeing nothing but a blurred world that was never going to be fair or the same ever again.

But it was just him now. Just he and the druids left to remember his fate, his "great destiny." And he wondered what sort of fate was worse, to be slowly stripped of your greatness within your own mind, _by_ your own mind, or to have to live in a world that would be forever ignorant of all the sacrifices you had made for it, all the great things you had done for it, left only with your own memories to validate they had happened, to drive you mad wondering if they had even happened or if _you_ were the only truly losing your mind.

*.*.*.*.*

Merlin still loved Arthur more than anything in the world, and Arthur had his moments, at least, where he remembered Merlin—even if he couldn't remember his name, he often smiled at him, recounted stories of their youth that would make a sinner blush—and that somehow made it all worthwhile, somehow made it easier to cope with—especially on those days, fair and far between, when Arthur would reach for a kiss, tasting of stale hope and loss and the sting of what they had once had.

*.*.*.*.*

It wasn't too long later that words at all became a struggle for Arthur. He could no longer recount the stories himself, his lips struggling to form the simplest of words even on his best days. Communication was reduced to Arthur miming when he was hungry, when he wanted fresh air—Merlin had to limit their visits outside more than ever, not wanting him to catch sick outside the warmth of the castle—and other various things, Merlin understanding everything he could ever want beyond logic.

*.*.*.*.*

Merlin had stopped sleeping in the bed with Arthur long ago, forgetting just how long it had been since he had last curled around Arthur protectively in the night, knowing, even in sleep, that he could do nothing to ease what was happening to him, but that he could provide the simple comfort of his body around him, at least. He took, instead, to the empty comfort of nearby chairs and the floor, even, on nights when he needed to stretch out. Arthur didn't even remember his _name_, somehow, it just didn't seem right to lay next to him in bed anymore.

*.*.*.*.*

Arthur took sick one evening—though Merlin couldn't explain _how_, as he'd been taking exceptional care of him—and it wasn't the sort of illness Merlin could pinpoint or place. If he could just figure out where the illness was coming from, what it was doing to him specifically, he could fix it, damnit, he could make him better.

But, he never could quite find a cure, could never come across the right herbs or mutter the right spell—he wasn't sure if he just didn't want to anymore or if it was simply not his fate to save Arthur this time. And he didn't think he would be able to handle the answer.

Either way, he wept, once he realized what this meant: Arthur was going to die. He was going to die knowing little of the great life he had led, he was going to die not remembering Merlin's name, he was going to die a broken shadow of the man he had once been. He was just… he was going to _die_. And Merlin's goodbye… Well, it wouldn't mean quite as much to him...

But he said goodbye anyway.

He brushed Arthur's gray hair—it would always be a sun-kissed blond in Merlin's mind—out of his face, and he smiled down at him, tears softly flowing down his own face. Arthur stared back up at him, his eyes still blue and lovely, though vacant, confused, wondering, a bit sad, and Merlin wondered if he knew what was coming, what was happening to him.

"You remember me, Arthur?" Merlin asked, taking in a slow, shaky breath. Arthur stared back at him, almost as though urging him on. "I'm—I'm Merlin. I'm your… your husband. And I love you—I have _always_ loved you—more than anything, more than myself, more than the kingdom, more than _anything_. We've been married for a long time, Arthur, and… these last few years… they've been hard, on you, on me, but I still love you, and… I think you still love me—you said you did, said you would _always_ love me. And I know you're not yourself anymore, Arthur, but…" He shook his head and allowed himself to dip slowly down onto the bed next to Arthur, smoothed down the sheet before he took one of Arthur's hands between his own and kissed it gently, lingering on the wedding band he had been wearing for so many decades now.

"But I still love you. I'll love you until my own dying breath and beyond. I'll love you when you're… when you're gone, and when you're finally at peace, when you're finally… when you finally remember who I am and every little detail you've forgotten over the years. All these years, Arthur..." Merlin whispered, sobbing gently. "All these _years... _Can you just... do me one favor? If—If you can remember _anything_ anymore, Arthur, in these final moments… Please, for me, just—just remember that I'll always love you. Please, Arthur. _Please." _Merlin begged, tears wearing down his own face, stained with time and stress and loss that he would not allow himself to acknowledge.

Arthur watched him, his eyes soft and cloudy with something Merlin didn't know how to decipher anymore, a predictable silence falling over the room around Merlin's quiet sobs. Arthur had no words for him, and that was okay—Merlin didn't need them. He just… he wished he had been left with memories of Arthur as he was, as he had been, instead of him like this. Arthur Pendragon would never have wanted to be remembered like this, but… Merlin couldn't deny any memories anymore—not when Arthur didn't have that luxury, not when Arthur didn't have many memories left at all.

After the longest of times, Merlin's chest tight with his body-shaking, soul shattering sobs, his throat raw and his face red, he tried to calm himself, remembering that Arthur… That Arthur… Remembering that it was almost…

God, he couldn't _do this!_ He couldn't lose Arthur, but…

He already had, hadn't he? Not just when he forgot who he was, when he forgot his name, but before that, back when he started _forgetting_, when the disease began to take hold—it had already been too late, then, and there had never really been much hope for improvement, had there?

"Merlin."

Merlin's eyes snapped to Arthur's face in an instant, his sobbing calming slightly before his chest tightened once more. It had been so long—_so long_—since he'd heard Arthur's voice; it was so broken and lost now, but it was still Arthur, still the great king he had once been, would always be.

"Arthur?" He asked, his whisper even more broken than Arthur's had been.

Arthur smiled up at him, a sort of smirk on his face, a twinkle in his eyes that Merlin hadn't seen in so many years now, the image of his younger self dancing through Merlin's mind bitterly, joyously, tauntingly.

It was a bit of a struggle for Arthur, his mouth moving soundlessly for some minutes before he finally managed to say what he wanted to, but when he finally got it out, when Merlin finally heard the words meant for him in Arthur's final moments... It was well worth the wait.

"I love you, Merlin... I'll _always_ love you."

And it was okay for that moment, for the moment Merlin broke down sobbing again, kissing Arthur's hand and then lips when he asked, silently, for one, tasting like remembrance and letting go as Merlin told him, again and again and _again_, how much he loved him and would _always_ love him.

And it was okay—it would never be _okay_, but, for the moment, it _was_—because, just for a moment, Arthur had remembered him again. And that was all Merlin could have hoped for in these final moments he had with him: the promise of memories that would return to him in the afterlife, and one final memory for himself, of a moment surrounded by chaos and something neither of them could ever have hoped to truly understand, reminded for the rest of his life that Arthur's final moment of clarity had been spent on telling Merlin of his love for him.

He would miss him more than anything, and when Arthur took his final, shaky breath later that evening with Merlin curled up in a ball on the bed next to him, refusing to let go of his hand for even a moment... Merlin felt a great pain, felt his heart, already so broken from what recent years had put him and Arthur through, break into even more pieces, breaking something deep within his soul now that his other half was gone. Finally, however, he could let lose, he could cry, sob to his heart's content. He had been holding so much in for so long, shouldering it all alone, had been so stressed and scared and broken and sad and—God, Arthur was gone now and nothing was okay and it would never be okay again.

He stayed that way, sobbing until he felt sick to his stomach, for so long, grasping Arthur's cold, limp, wrinkled hand in his own, refusing to let go for hours. And he had hours, really, since few servants came around anymore at his request, and they only started to come an hour or two after the sun had risen, so he had his time to grieve and sob and not let go, allowing himself to grieve the physical loss of his husband mere hours ago, and the mental loss of him those years ago when he had forgotten who Merlin was—that, he decided, had been one of the most painful parts of this. Watching Arthur lose himself, watching his mind slip away from him, forgetting everything and everyone else, that had been one thing, but, he had still remembered Merlin, and that had made it all bearable. But once he forgot Merlin, forgot his face and name...

That had been it, that had been when Merlin had started feeling it more and more, the weight of all this, the... _burden_ Arthur had become, though he hated that word, it was how anyone else would choose to phrase it. And oh God—was he a terrible person for feeling relief in this moment? Relief that he didn't have to watch anything else leave Arthur—not that he had anything else to give, not really—that he didn't have to spend all his days pretending he didn't hurt anymore? Was it wrong to feel relief that Arthur was no longer suffering? Was it wrong to feel anything other than soul-crushing sadness in that moment?

*.*.*.*.*

Eventually, a serving girl came around with breakfast and found Merlin like that, and what a sight he must have been, truly—the poor girl, she had only been working there for a few months and Merlin hardly knew her name, but she didn't deserve to walk in on a scene like that: Merlin, curled up, sobbing quietly with stubborn tears that would not stop coming, tightly clutching the hand of their now deceased king—_his_ deceased husband—so tightly that his own withered knuckles were white. She didn't deserve to see such a scene, but then, Arthur hadn't deserved his fate either, so what did Merlin know anymore?

*.*.*.*.*

Arthur was laid to rest and Merlin was still a mess, with only Leon at his side as their oldest of friends, the only other one left in the castle to remember with him their youth, their conquests and battles, victories and losses, laughs and tears. He had lived all those memories—or at least, most of them—with Arthur and Merlin, he knew better than anyone else, other than Merlin, what Arthur has lost, but... he wouldn't _really_ understand. He hadn't been around to see Arthur in some time before his passing—he hadn't been _allowed_ to—and he didn't know what it was like, to have to watch him slowly progress with the disease like that—he wouldn't know what it was like to fall asleep in a cloud of guilt every night for the rest of his life because his husband had _died_ and he had felt _relief_.

Leon wouldn't know, and no one on the council would know, none of the servants or knights would know—none but _Merlin_ would know, and he... He was not so lucky as Arthur had been, and would remember it all—_all_—for the rest of his days and beyond, his only solace most nights the thought of Arthur in whatever sort of afterlife there was, his mind his own again, full of all the things he had lost on earth, and the memory of Arthur's last moments in the front of his mind, etched there to last against the wear of time, the echo of Arthur's weak voice fading into the young man he had once been and reminding Merlin of all they had truly lost.

"I love you, Merlin... I'll _always_ love you."

Because even when he couldn't remember Merlin, he had still, in his own way, remembered his love for him. Because Fate was kind to them—even when she was cruel. And Merlin would never forget that—any of it—no matter how badly he wanted to most days. All he had now were those memories—those memories of _lost_ memories and a lifetime slipping away as though it had meant nothing at all—and to wish it away would be like a slap in the face to the memory of Arthur, however ironic _that_ was...

But, sometimes, Merlin couldn't help what he wished.

*.*.*.*.*

* * *

**I don't know how realistic it is with Arthur towards the end there—you know, the bit just before he dies—but, since I'm assuming it's ****not very, I'll have to ask you to simply forgive the discrepancy, as it would have felt _wrong_ to have Arthur die without saying something to Merlin and Merlin not having a sort of moment like that to hold on to for the rest of _his_ life. I know that's not always how it works in _real life_, but, it's fanfiction, guys, I think I'm allowed to bend things a bit for the sake of the story.**

**So, yeah, that was probably the most heart-wrenching fic I've written to date. I've written a few sad fics in my time, okay, but none of them had me on the verge of tears as often as this one did. I've been in a state of "I will not fucking cry" since the first sentence and by the end I was just a fucking mess. Or was it just me?**

**In case you're wondering, Arthur progressed through the stages of Alzheimer's relatively quickly. It varies for everyone who suffers it, and Arthur... I don't know, somehow it felt right to have him advance through the disease in just a few years compared to how long it _could_ have taken—if I was pressed for an answer, I would say that this fic takes place _maybe_ over a period of three to eight years—and I'm not entirely sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing right now.  
**

**Always,  
Hisa-Ai**


End file.
